


Feet first

by hippocrates460



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: A story of New York heroics, M/M, Peter B Parker - Freeform, Probably more like, and falling in love, they're both very tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23203993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: “Yo,” he says, slumped on the nasty couch next to Deadpool, both of them still dicks out and panting. “Do you have a nose?”“What?” Deadpool chokes. He sits up and tucks himself away immediately. Which is a bummer because Peter had been kinda hoping for a round two.“Well,” he says, realizing how that was probably rude. “Don’t answer if you don’t want to of course, but I was thinking... do you have like a skeleton nose? Or a normal one?”----If searching AO3 for spideypool + feet is what brought you here, I'll have to disappoint you. Not that sort of fic unfortunately.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 242





	Feet first

**Author's Note:**

> In which WIP Month prompted me to re-examine my WIP folder. It's full, yo. Hope you enjoy my first spideypool! It was SO much fun to write.  
> As always: Thank you Lilian for encouraging me, and for loving me even when I ignore your voicemessages <3

Aunt May likes to say that Peter was born stubborn. He was also born the wrong way around, which in the case of babies being born means feet first. Both of these things - both aunt May and Peter agree - describe him to a T.

Which is how he finds himself three days after he discovered that holy hell... men. Men are hot. Facedown on a deeply questionable mattress in Deadpool’s deeply questionable dump of an apartment. In this case, of course, feet first is metaphorical, but ass up is not.

“Fuck, spidey,” Deadpool babbles behind him. “If I’d known you’d just say yes I’d have asked much much earlier.”

You did ask, Peter doesn’t bother saying. He also doesn’t bother explaining the _men_ epiphany to Deadpool because considering the way Deadpool is kneading his ass right now, he’s had that revelation himself.

Deadpool pulls down his spider pants a bit, though not all the way, and moves his spider shirt up enough to place wet, soggy... are those kisses? Along his spine. He licks at Peters crack like it’s a delicacy or a difficult-to-eat fruit, then spreads his cheeks and goes to town with an enthusiasm Peter has previously only known from that documentary he saw once on wild hogs. Not that he’s complaining, mind you. Peter is too busy rutting against the mattress and pushing back against the wet tongue that is working its way in and... the finger? Fingers?

He whites out like a sack of flour when he comes and is only vaguely aware of Deadpool rutting against his foot with jerky grunts.

When he wakes up, he notices the cold patch in his mask where he’s drooled, the cold wet patch of come in his pants, and the soggy wet mess of his ass. He pulls his pants on and straightens himself out as much as he can, then goes to look for Deadpool. Who is passed out on the couch, surrounded by literal filth, snoring like it’ll end the world.

“Hey dude,” Peter says. Nothing happens. “Deadpool?” Still nothing. “Ok thanks man,” Peter says and he flees out the window. Well, flees is a big word. The correct one though.

He doesn’t think anything at all until he’s in his own shower, naked and no longer sticky with flaking come, which is when he realizes just how weird that was. He’d expected a quick fuck, not the ass eating of the century, and he’s known Deadpool a while, sure. But to just say “yeah ok” when asked if he wants to bend over so Deadpool could get a better look at his ass? That’s a lot.

They don’t talk about it. They fuck though. Against sticky walls in alleys, or on rooftops. Once or twice in a park. Always in the dark, always too hot too fast too dry. Peter figures out how Deadpool feels about being tied up when he fucks him as he’s still covered in Peter’s webbing (this is why you shouldn’t sneak up on me asshole) and stuck to a wall.

“Was that too much?” Peter asks, after, when they’re sharing tacos on a rooftop.

“Nah don’t you worry baby boy,” Deadpool croons. “I’m into far kinkier shit than that.”

Peter makes them pick a safe word after that (tony stark, because whether it’s actually him or not, it means the fucking is over) because he has a reputation to uphold. Friendly neighborhood spidermen should at least aim for safe sane and consensual. Much as the first is pretty much unnecessary because of their powers, and sane is a pie in the sky on a good day.

He remembers one day what it felt like to drool as MJ forced her cock down his throat and tries that with Deadpool. Just as good as he remembered.

Between pretty regular sex and more regular bickering about crimefighting, Peter somehow still fails to notice that he hasn’t seen Deadpool for a while until he stumbles upon him bleeding, like, a lot.

“Fuck,” he hisses, checks for danger.

“No more baddies,” Deadpool assures him. “Good to see you, baby boy.” It’s pained and pant-y, as in, Deadpool is panting, so Peter picks him up. He looks at Deadpool, who is breathing irregularly even as his flesh seems to be knitting itself back together (and, gross) then slings him over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, one arm around Deadpool’s dead weight, another readying to do some more slinging until they make it all the way to Deadpool’s grotty apartment. It’s so gross that Peter Parker, notoriously kind of yucky except when it’s really Too Much, starts cleaning as soon as he’s dumped Deadpool on the bed. He puts a nice little web in the courtyard and plays catch with trash, throwing shit out the window into the web. He’ll get rid of it all in one go later, when he’s absolutely certain Deadpool is ok.

“Not very eco-friendly of you,” is the first thing he hears, right when he gives himself ten points for an exceptionally well-done pizza box toss. He startles all the way up to the ceiling, and leans over backwards to see Deadpool leaning on one elbow. He looks like he’s in pain, his suit is ripped apart even if the flesh underneath is closed up. Scarred. Caked in dried blood. But no longer an open wound.

“Well,” Peter huffs. “I’ll take it all to recycling in a minute. Although it might have been faster to get this place rezoned as a dumpster.”

“Hey,” Deadpool protests after thinking over the insult for a minute. “Actually you’re probably right. D’ya have time for some hanky panky before you go save the world with proper waste management?”

Peter wrinkles his nose. “Next time my dude. You need to shower first.” Deadpool sits up further to protest again, but Peter is definitely right on this one. “No no, I mean it. What’d you even do to that suit? Shit yourself and just let it air dry? Actually feel free to toss it out the window I’ll throw the whole damn suit out for you.”

Deadpool tells him to fuck right off, and Peter is still laughing when he does. With a giant net of trash.

It takes a few months before Peter figures out the pattern. Deadpool is in New York for a few weeks, then gone for a few weeks. Usually no more than three on and off. When he comes back he’s filthy and exhausted, and right before he leaves he’s broke. It’s not difficult to figure out what he’s up to when he’s away, but the realization does come in the middle of a leisurely swing about town, which means Peter faceplants into a streetlamp. Not sexy, he thinks, not sexy at all. The laughter he hears though (and there shouldn’t really be any, it’s four in the morning and this isn’t necessarily a nice part of town) is familiar.

“Spidey,” Deadpool gasps, lying on his back, cackling madly, “what the ever-loving fuck – ”

“Are you killing people when you’re away?” Peter says, interrupting his laughter even though he’s also glad to see him. It’s the deduction, you know. It was very recent so now it’s on his mind.

Deadpool sits up with effort. “Can’t we go back to the fucking and bants Spidey?” he asks, his tone very serious. “I preferred that bit.”

It’s something to think about. “Sure,” Peter says when he’s decided, “but I’d still like to know what you get up to when you leave.”

“Jobs, baby boy,” Deadpool tells him, “heroics might pay your bills, but they sure as hell don’t pay mine.”

“I have a job,” Peter protests, but it’s not like he doesn’t understand how hard it is to combine eating regularly and having a roof over his head with dramatically flinging himself into villains and other mean people. He remembers the important bit as sort of an afterthought. “My job doesn’t involve killing people.”

“I know how you feel about killing people,” Deadpool says, sad and worn. An alarm starts blaring about three blocks away as he says it, and Peter has to strain to hear the next bit. “It’s why I try to save as many as I can.”

They run into the danger together, as they’ve done before, and Peter focuses on the fight for the next few hours.

“Ah,” Captain America exclaims, pointing at Peter (and what’s up with that?) “they’re here.”

“The Dynamic Duo,” Black Widow chimes in, and both Peter and Deadpool groan.

“The Wonder Twins,” Hawkeye adds, and both Peter and Deadpool ready their weapons. Luckily the attack of alien robots (seriously, this can’t be normal) interrupts the further attempts at being funny of team monster-of-the-week. That’s a good joke, Peter thinks, with a grin. Mustn’t forget to tell Deadpool later.

‘Later’ turns out to be at Deadpools apartment, where Deadpool is regrowing a few fingers and Peter is slowly fucking his mouth. His suit got torn in the fight and Stark will get him a new one of course, but the flapping is a bit annoying and he does sort of want to take it off. It’s the first time he’s felt that way around Deadpool.

Deadpool makes a gagging noise, and it feels incredibly good, so Peter fucks a little faster, holds him by the back of the neck and sweeps his thumb over Deadpools jaw, where saliva is dripping down. He kind of loves this. There’s pizza cooling on the table, and it’s quiet in the shady building Deadpool lives in. The night seems still.

He nearly falls when he comes, slumped over, looking at the edge of Deadpool’s mask, where a bit of skin is exposed but hidden by the shadow.

“Yo,” he says, slumped on the nasty couch next to Deadpool, both of them still dicks out and panting. “Do you have a nose?”

“What?” Deadpool chokes. He sits up and tucks himself away immediately. Which is a bummer because Peter had been hoping for a round two a bit.

“Well,” he says, realizing how that was probably rude. “Don’t answer if you don’t want to of course, but I was thinking... do you have like a skeleton nose? Or a normal one?”

Deadpool punches him in the arm, which he kinda deserves, mutters a whole bunch to himself, which is probably fair, and then rolls up his mask. Which Peter had decidedly not expected.

“You tell me,” he says, a little hoarse. Again, probably fair, consider the scarring and the way Peter knows his skin hurts him all the time.

“Perfectly nice,” Peter decides, after some contemplation. It’s true. It’s a nice nose.

It’s normal enough that Deadpool disappears after two weeks instead of three that Peter isn’t immediately worried. It’s also normal enough that it takes him more than three weeks to get back. Peter tries and tries to think about how long it’s been each time, but it has been a month, and he just really. Doesn’t think it’s ever been that long before.

“Have you seen Deadpool around?” He asks the Avengers, when he meets them. Only Black Widow understands what he’s asking, and while everyone else shrugs she promises him she’ll look into it.

_[14:02] Fell off the face of the earth a month ago. Sorry._

He is glad it only took her twenty minutes to get back to him, and he wants to urge her to look harder, but knows she wouldn’t have stopped looking if she hadn’t tried everything. Peter is very worried now.

So much so, that when he hears a loud scream just as it’s getting light outside, runs into the alley the scream came from, and finds some poor lady has found Deadpool’s mangled body, he picks him up and swings away without so much as a thanks to the poor woman. He also, stupidly and unthinkingly, takes Deadpool to his own apartment. Drips blood everywhere (good thing he got rid of the carpets first thing when he moved here) and lays him down very gently on his bed.

There’s nothing to do. First aid is useless on someone like Deadpool. He doesn’t want to violate his privacy by taking the suit off. So he just paces up and down his small bedroom, and then when it sounds like Deadpool has fallen asleep, he covers him with some blankets and goes to his livingroom/kitchen situation to cook up some dinner.

“Where the fuck am I?” Is the first noise he hears, and Peter almost drops his pan, rushes to turn off the hubs, ends up just unplugging his stupid little hotplate. “ _Clearly_ it isn’t,” Deadpool continues, as if there’s someone else there, “it smells like food and Spiderman in here. Get your act together, yellow.”

Then Peter bursts into the room. “Thank God,” he sighs, at the sight of Deadpool sitting up in his bed. He points at Deadpool with the wooden spoon. “And fuck you for disappearing on me like that.”

Deadpool laughs, high and maniacal. “Won’t do it again baby boy,” he promises. Peter can’t see his face and still knows he’s being shifty, so he sits down on the mattress at Deadpool’s feet.

“What happened?” He asks. When Deadpool opens his mouth and takes a deep breath to go _lie_ to him, Peter points at the bed, which is properly soaked in blood by now.

“Alright,” Deadpool groans, and he falls back down on the pillow. “I was kidnapped – ‘pool-napped, whatever you wanna call it, held for a while, didn’t die though, and now I’m here.”

Peter deflates a bit, then nods. “Fuck. Ok. Have a shower, grab some clean clothes. Dinner’s almost ready.”

When Deadpool gets out of the bathroom, Peter grins at him. “Interesting outfit,” he says, and Deadpool looks down at himself. He chose to wear three of Peter’s oldest, rattiest sweaters, over each other, and some sweats that are a little short, with skiing socks that Tony Stark had gotten him at some point. He’s wearing his mask, but his hands are uncovered.

“Should I wear something else?” Deadpool asks, and Peter just motions at his couch.

“Sit,” he says. “Hope you like pasta.”

Deadpool eats five plates, and tells a bit more about what happened to him while he was away. A job gone bad, no Avengers that are tracking him all the time. Peter offers to help him make sure his apartment is safe to stay at, and Deadpool shrugs.

“What are they going to do?” He asks, very obviously rhetorically. “Kidnap me?”

It’s funny, because Deadpool is funny, but it’s also the aching tragedy of everything about Deadpool. His life’s shit because his life has been shit, he’s a mess because he’s been messed up, and the way out requires more self-forgiveness than anyone remotely sane would be capable of. And Deadpool might not be the poster child for sanity, but he also isn’t a narcissist.

“You can stay here,” Peter offers, because despite the fact that he’s still all the way suited up (except for his chin so he can eat) and Deadpool cackles.

“No chance in hell, baby boy,” he laughs. Shakes his head like it’s the stupidest idea ever. Peter looks around. His place is nice-ish, it’s not fancy but it’s kind of clean and there’s all the normal things a house has, he thinks. Pictures of his family, some stuff from work... That might just be the problem.

“Well I’m sorry if my living standards are incompatible with yours,” he quips back, and then remembers that this means his identity isn’t secret anymore. “Ehm,” he starts. “Deadpool?”

“Mm,” Deadpool hums, with a hungry stare in the direction of the fridge. “D’you have icecream?”

“Yeah,” Peter gets up and gets him some. “It’s just chocolate I think,” he checks the label, off-brand cookie dough. “This ok?”

“Yessss,” Deadpool hisses, taking the carton and spoon eagerly.

“So,” Peter starts again. “You know what my face looks like now.”

Deadpool drops the spoon immediately, it’s comically obvious from the way his mouth hangs open under his mask that he hadn’t thought that far yet. “I do?”

“You’re in my apartment,” Peter points out, “that’s me and my aunt and uncle when I was like, six.” He points over to his tv. “And that’s my aunt and me when I graduated college,” the only picture on his wall, and it’s only there because Aunt May made him hang it. “That’s my desk, with all my work shit.”

“Fuck,” Deadpool hisses, “oh I’m in the secret spidey-lair.” He stands up carefully, probably still aching, and looks around, ice cream still in hand. He deliberates everything around him for a long minute, then spins around with his hand out. “I’m Wade Wilson,” he says, as if they haven’t known each other for years, as if they haven’t been fucking for ages, “pleased to meet you.”

Peter still shakes his hand though, “Peter Parker.”

“Are we exclusive?” Peter asks Deadpool at some point. (His dick’s still inside Deadpool and he’s more aware than ever that they haven’t, not even once, used a condom.) “It’s just that the medic asked last week after the thing with the robots aliens.”

Deadpool doesn’t say anything for a really, very long time. Long enough for them to untangle and tuck themselves away again. It’s unlike him, so Peter starts trying to take his words back (which goes about as well as those things always do).

“It’s cute that you think more people are delusional enough to want to fuck me,” Deadpool laughs finally. And the thing about these comebacks is that they’re sad at best. When it takes Deadpool that long to come up with them, it’s the sort of heart-breaking that has Peter’s teeth on edge for days. It’s been more than a year for him, he’s normally very happy with the amount of sex that Deadpool and he have when Deadpool is around, and when he isn’t around he used to hook up a bit. The last few times he tried he just got irritated with not being able to find anyone he actually _wanted_ to have sex with.

“I’ll, eh,” he stammers instead of realizing what that might mean, “I’ll let them know, next time they ask.”

It’s a stupid accident in the end. There’s a blast from an explosion and Peter is too close to run, but Deadpool is just close enough to throw himself in front of Peter. “Goddammit,” Peter cries even as Deadpool is doing it. The fight doesn’t even end with that. Deadpool is crumpled on the floor, bleeding and groaning as his skin fights to cover his stupid body again, and Peter doesn’t have time for more than glances to make sure nobody runs off with him as he knocks out all the robot ninja aliens trying to attack Grand Central. When his comms finally tell him the coast is clear, he falls to his knees next to Deadpool.

“Deadpool,” he slaps his cheek a little, “dude what the fuck was that?”

“Please,” Deadpool groans, “it’s not like you’d have been able to regrow this much skin.”

“Asshole,” Peter bites on his lip to fight back tears that came out of fucking nowhere, “my suit’s heat resistant.”

Of course Deadpool had forgotten about that, and Peter vows to make Tony get him a suit too, both of their stubborn stupidity be damned, even as he’s slinging Deadpool over his shoulder. He thinks for only a second about which way to go, then decides that at least he knows his own bedsheets are clean. He’s about halfway home by the time he realizes just how not-heat-resistant Deadpool’s suit is, when a crumbling piece of red spandex hits him in the face.

Deadpool is naked except for his weapon’s holsters (priorities Peter’s Spiderman side understands and agrees with) by the time he carefully lowers Deadpool into his half-bath. Deadpool wakes up when he turns on the showerhead.

“What are you doing?” is the first thing he says, still too out of it to register what’s happening it seems.

“Rinsing you down,” Peter explains. He starts at his feet, making sure the water is proper lukewarm. “Burns get infected like nobody’s business.”

“I heal pretty well,” Deadpool reminds him.

“Yeah, well,” Peter insists, knowing he sounds stubborn and possibly petulant. “I’m thinking the less there is to heal, the more your body gets to heal.”

“I literally have cancer,” Deadpool says, sounding more amused than anything now, “but by all means keep going.”

Peter sets his jaw and rinses him off, top to toe. Or toe to top, of course. It’s the first time he’s seeing Deadpool entirely naked, he thinks vaguely when he rubs at a spot of dried blood that won’t come off. Not that he hadn’t seen enough bits to cobble together what the rest must look like, by now. “Sit up?” he asks finally, hoping to be able to do his back too. That’s when he notices the look on Deadpool’s face. Eyes closed tight, shallow breaths. Fists. “Am I hurting you?” he asks. He points the shower head towards the wall, he didn’t mean to hurt him.

“Not to worry, baby boy,” Deadpool sing-songs, a hollow attempt at lightness.

“Yeah, ok,” Peter shuts off the tap and gets a towel from his mismatched but clean stack. “Dry yourself off, I’ll cook up some pancakes or something.”

It’s another year or so before Peter realizes how right Aunt May was about him. Stubborn, absolutely, and also the other way around. He snorts into his cup noodles, and Deadpool tears his eyes away from the Japanese people-hurting-each-other-and-themselves show they’re watching. “What?” Some of the noodles he had in his mouth fall back into the cup as he says it.

“Just,” Peter tries to think of a way to explain it very hard and ends up shrugging it off, “funny how normally it’s all, you see someone, you meet them, you hang out, you kiss, you fuck, you know.” Deadpool’s face is hard to read, half-covered by the mask, but his mouth is still hanging open a bit. “It’s the wrong way around how we did it.”

Deadpool huffs and points at him with his chopsticks. “For you maybe.” He drinks some of the soup from the carton cup in a pathetic attempt at pretending he doesn’t care, and looks at the tv rather than at Peter when he speaks again. “I was head over heels from the first time I saw you. You were helping that old lady across the street, and then some kids threw fireworks, and you had the most miserable expression when you had to keep helping her, rather than go after the kids.”

Peter remembers that. She’d been so _slow_ and he hadn’t wanted to be rude by telling her to hurry, but the kids were getting away and he laughs. Love. “Yeah for me it was the first time you fought someone with your dick still out,” he lies. “Hard to resist that.” It’d been years before that. Possibly the first time he’d noticed Deadpool trying to keep eating his hotdog even as Peter was pounding into him. But who’s to say, really?


End file.
